


It's A Start

by CaptainJimothyCarter



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [10]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Werewolf Clint Barton, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, WinterHawk Bingo, animal death mentioned, clintbucky - Freeform, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJimothyCarter/pseuds/CaptainJimothyCarter
Summary: There's a figure in the snowstorm that tugs on what is left of the wolf's human heart. It's clear the stranger is not going to survive the night with the smell of blood in the air and how he stumbles on every other step. Clint forces himself to stop in and take care of the stranger because no one else will and because the voice in the back of his head won't shut up until he does.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891774
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	It's A Start

**Author's Note:**

> For Winterhawk Bingo: Huddling for Warmth

There was a smell in the air that cut through the sharp, stinging cold. It burned the wolf’s nose as he raised his head and let the fierce, winter winds brush the smell around him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see it in his mind’s eye. Swirls of color amongst a white landscape, leading him to step by step towards the occupant with that very smell. Opening his eyes, the wolf let his fur brustle as a sharp gust of wind blew snow from the bank into his face. This was a bad storm and someone wandering in it, as this occupant had for the last few hours was certainly bad news.

He smelled odd, he’d give him that. There was the sharpness of the cold around them, yes but even a few yards behind, hidden in the depths of the cold wind blowing, he could smell something cold about him. Not the sharpness of the winds around them, instead it was something cold and metallic. He got his answer when the snow stalled in its path of burying them - a metal arm. Plates that slowly whirled and crossed one another as he moved the metal arm to adjust the makeshift bandage across the flesh shoulder. 

Daring to step closer, he smelled the iron in the air. Old. Lingering. A tinge of almost acidic lingering behind. A bullet had passed through that shoulder, injuring the stranger. He was lucky to be able to still be on his feet, nevermind amongst this dessert tundra. This guy’s luck was about to run out soon.

He was onto him, yet the man was far too slow to catch him. He was dangerous still, any man with that arm would be dangerous. He carries a gun, a rifle laid across his shoulder, but it hasn’t been touched since the stranger had caught sight of the wolf. There are no bullets. It’s been fired within the last day, there’s a lingering gun powder scent hanging in the air. It clings to the man’s fingers, hidden behind the tinge of iron that tells him the man is still bleeding. It’s sluggish and slow. It’s going to kill him, he’s lucky to survive the night.

He can’t let him die. There’s a voice in the back of his head, the only human thought of him that tells the wolf this. He can’t let another soul die on him. 

The wolf can easily see through this storm, even with the fierce winds whipping around them. He studies the man from a distance, allowing a yard between them when he dares to get close enough. The stranger is muscular in a way that tells him that he is used to making himself seem small, even with his shoulders hunched to try to avoid the worst of the cold. His long hair has seen better days and whips around him, the wolf watching as he annoyingly tucks it under the thin hood of a coat that seems too thin for this weather. It’s a useless material given the left arm is ripped off.

Whoever this man is, whatever he is doing here, it’s certain to the wolf that he doesn’t belong here.

The man, as expected, doesn’t take too easy to the wolf’s arrival, having been following him for several miles at this point. He knew he was there but not having the energy to fight, he doesn’t acknowledge him in hopes he would leave. He makes a noise in the back of his throat as the wolf approaches, something that sounds like a growl. It comes out in a grunt like he’s annoyed. 

The wolf stops in front of him, stopping them in their paths. The wind has died down, but not for long, the snow is just as heavily falling. It sticks to his thick fur, standing out amongst the dark, sandy blonde fur. It sticks to the stranger’s hood and melts when it touches his metal arm. They stare off, yellow eyes that just _somehow, somehow_ have hints of a human blue in them unblinkingly. The stranger has eyes that remind him of a storm. Waves of blue and green crashing amongst the gray, stormy waters. He looks conflicted, emotions flickering back and forth as if there are two sides of him in a constant battle. 

_“G-get!”_

The words are broken off in a voice that sounds like rolling thunder, in a tone that tells the wolf he rarely gets to speak. He seems almost surprised at the word escaping those full lips himself. 

The wolf doesn’t leave, he has no reason to, a simple _get_ isn’t going to get him to leave. Instead, he steps closer, but the stranger does not move. They stare off again, the man tensing his jaw and painfully pulling his shoulders back in a manner to show he is the Alpha here.

He screams - it’s more of a broken roar. It’s certainly broken and achy on the throat and intended to used to scare off wild animals in a show to mean he is bigger here. All the wolf does is laugh. It’s achy and snickering in his throat and sounds more like dry coughing, but the implication is all the same. 

It’s enough to make the stranger groan and roll his eyes. He mutters something about a _lost dog_ in Russian, a language that strikes the wolf as familiar. 

The wolf runs around him in a circle, kicking up ankle-deep snow in his direction. A few handfuls of it land in the man’s face and he growls again as he wipes it off, nearly snarling at him.

“Kill me,” he says in a tone that’s so broken it nearly breaks the wolf’s heart. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To kill me? Stop taunting and just do it. I can’t fight. I failed.”

The more he speaks, the more he is shown to be broken. The more he speaks, the more the wolf is right to think he wants to protect him. Who exactly did he fail that makes him want to run _here?_

No answer comes from the silent wolf who just rolls his tongue out and cocks his head to the side. He’s trying to be as friendly as possible until he leaps. He doesn’t bite the man as expected, instead, he goes for the rifle that was now hanging off of his shoulder. The strap is held between his razor-sharp teeth as he takes off, dragging the thing through the mud and snow.

The man, as expected, gives chase and can swear this wolf is leading him somewhere.

There’s a cave in the depths of these ragged, frozen rocks. It’s not easily seen, even when the world outside is calm. It’s tucked away and hidden, just as the wolf wants. He doesn’t want to be found. 

The rifle skits and drags on the cave floor as he walks slowly inside the cave, tail swishing to lead the stranger deeper. He’s just behind, breath ragged. He’s exhausted. He’s reminded how the man won’t make it through the night.

Dropping the rifle on the other side of a roaring fire, the wolf takes the mans hand between his teeth carefully and leads him to where a nest awaits him. This is where he lives. Amongst a roaring fire, discarded animal bones along the wall, blankets are folded into a thick nest that seems to be his resting place. There isn’t much here, but it’s home. It’s his. And he’s happy to share it. 

The stranger seems to relax, eyes lighting up as he sees the fire and the nest. He moans, groaning is more like it, and staggers to his knees just before the fire. The wolf is terrified he might fall into it, but instead, he falls back to the blankets.

Nosing at a backpack that is hidden behind some rocks, he pulls out a used first-aid kit. There’s not much left, but there should be enough to disinfect and bandage that wound up. He all but just about tosses it at the man, who is looking more grateful by the second. Taking one last look at him and a face that is pale and gaunt, the wolf yips as if to say _stay_ before taking off, right back into the storm.

Hunting was something he did for the sport, even before his turning. He hunted to feed the hungry mouths around him, there was always someone hungry around him. He hunted because he liked to feel the thrill of it running through his system. Beforehand, he used primitive weapons that were laughed at, in this modern age. Now, he uses the senses he was cursed with to help others.

Rabbits are not very filling, but they are quick and easy to hunt. They pose little risk and means he won’t be gone from his cave for long. The little thing didn’t stand a chance, feeling its fight for its life between his teeth. He could feel it jerking and the squeaking makes his ears ring. The last of its life paints his face red and the rabbit grows slack. 

He almost feels bad.

_Almost._

Food is food and this is the circle of life. Sacrifices had to be made.

By the time he has come back, the stranger looks better. His shirt and jacket are off, now drying on rocks close to the fire. The flickering orange and yellow light show off a body that is mirrored in scars. Rugged burns that run across his chest and over his neck. Small dots, even quarter size rugged ones that tell him cigars were put out on his beautiful skin. Lines of puffy, pinky and faded marks litter his body in a pattern that makes no sense. Rough marks that look like bullets tell a story that the wolf doesn’t want to know the ending too. 

His heart aches for him.

His cheeks are flushed a little with the warm air around them, a crack in the ceiling that is big enough to allow smoke to filter out so they’re not poisoned. He looks relieved to even see the wolf back, eyes dropping down to the three rabbits in his jaw with a hungry look in his eyes. God only knows when this man has last eaten. Tossing them at his feet, the stranger takes them and skins them with a blade pulled from his boot. 

The cave is filled with an aroma that almost reminds him of home. It’s almost calming how the stranger is quiet, yet loud enough with his human sound that reminds him he is not alone. He turns the meat speared on sticks so it’s heavenly roasted, often glancing across the flames to study the wolf. He didn’t seem too surprised when he had left and returned, having washed off the dried blood from its fur.

“Thank...you,” he finally says, pulling one of the smaller rabbits off of the flame. He slices into the meat before tossing the larger chunks towards him and hungrily biting into it himself. Gristle and juices run down his jaw like he’s a starving man and he is. This meal only ignites a sense he had long forgotten.

The wolf responds in his own manner, another grunt and small sound in the back of his throat. He pads over to him and sits as close as he dares, shaking his head when another piece is offered to him. He needs to eat, but he can withstand, this stranger needs it more. With melted snow to drink, it provides a comforting meal and a sense for the wolf that he’s doing something right.

They are quiet as the night wanes on, darkness enveloping a world they couldn’t see outside. It’s loud out there, the wind howls and when it is blown in the right direction, it whistles and howls through the cave. They are too deep for the worst of the cold to reach them, but it’s enough to remind them what awaits them out there. They’re safe in here, where there are warmth and light.

_“This you?”_

The voice makes the wolf open one eye, where his head had been resting on his paws, curled up as small as he could on the edge of his blankets. It’s clear he intended to leave room for the stranger to join him. He picks his head up as he spots the old, folded flyer in the man’s flesh hand. He forgot he had that amongst his pack. It’s only right the guy digs through his stuff, even if it annoys him. He is simply curious.

The flyer’s contents are nearly faded from age. Black ink amongst old paper that’s now yellowed with age. Despite that it’s faded, it’s clear of what it is advertising. On the paper sits the silhouette of a young man, the details lost to age. A bow is strung in his hand, a quiver laid across his naked back. He stands on a horse, an arrow flying from his bow. _The Amazing Hawkeye & Fable. He never misses. _

The wolf lets out a sound, almost pained as his eyes drop to the man’s boots. He’d removed them to dry, socks laid out on top of them. He shuffles in his spot, pressing his nose to just barely touch the guy’s knee from where he sits cross-legged.

It surprises him when he’s touched. A gentle hand laid on top of his head, nails gently scratching on a spot behind his ear that makes the wolf’s foot tap on pure nature instinct alone. The man looks almost amused. 

“Werewolf, then?” When the wolf nods and makes another noise, he shifts closer. This time, his head is in his lap and the fingers are soothingly stroking through his fur. “Can you change back?”

A painful sound escapes him the answer is no. The man has decency enough to look upset for him, making a noise of comfort in the back of his throat. 

Silence laps around them before he finally speaks again, “So, you are about as trapped as I am.”

His head picks up, cocking to the side and letting his tongue roll out again. _How?_

The man shrugs. “My handlers will come. They will find me. They don’t like the idea that I failed and they will punish me - my mind will be wiped after the damage is done.”

He sees red. It’s the first _real_ emotion he’s felt in so long, a feeling that tugs on his soul _telling_ him that he has lost someone close before. A snarl that causes his muzzle to wrinkle and spit to leaves his lips. He doesn’t think. He throws himself at the stranger and knocks him back into the comfortable nest, laying his full hundred-pound body on him. Either the stranger does not care, is too tired to fight, or agrees with him, because he doesn’t push him off.

“Okay,” he sighs, after a long minute. “I’ll stay. Scout’s honor.” 

The wolf slowly gets up, only for long enough for the man to make himself comfortable to lay back on the blankets. His nest is destroyed in this manner, blankets covering them and padded around them as he blankets himself back over the stranger. He’s damn near purring and for some reason that amuses the stranger. 

The hand lays on his neck and holds him there as they both fall asleep in the warmth of their cocoon.

* * *

By morning, the fire is no longer existent. It’s smoldering ambers that are more ashes than ambers. It’s a sad reminder that he will have to get up and hunt for both food and wood, enough to last the night again. There’s silence outside the cave, indicating the storm has stopped. A bright light telling him the morning sun is greeting them and lighting up a world of white around them.

Not that it matters to Clint. He awakens to find himself against the chest of the stranger he took a risk on. His senses are duller than those are when he’s a wolf but still stronger than a normal human’s. He can still smell the cold scent of the man, the iron and acid had been washed away now that the wound is cared for. Clint smiles as he stretches his limbs in a way that looks more animal than man, only looking amused as he finds the stranger is awake. 

The hand is still on the back of his neck, rubbing skin instead of fur. Stroking mangled, dirty hair that had seen better days. He’s comfortable and warm and neither wants to move from this cocoon. 

“Who knew you were a blonde,” the stranger muses with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Are you okay?”

That’s a good question. Clint blinks slowly and takes into account the memories floating in his head. He remembers them as the wolf, sharp scents burning his nose, faster on four legs than two. He’s a little sore, but that is expected given how long he was in wolf form.

He’d been a wolf for so long, his days melting together, that he forgot what it’s like to be human.

“Yes,” Clint replies in a careful tone. “Are you?”

The guy nods, slowly sitting them up. Clint falls back with the blankets around his shoulders but sitting in the man’s lap. He doesn’t seem to care about the fact that he’s naked.

“Yes, but…” The stranger sighs, taking in a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “I am dangerous. You shouldn’t stay around me.”

Clint isn’t sure why he does it, but he scoffs and rolls his eyes. “So am I, but you didn’t seem to have a problem with it last night.” His eyes drop to the ash, watching a light wind float a piece into the air. “What’s your name?”

It breaks him when the guy shrugs, muttering that he doesn’t know. “I’m called Soldat.”

The dirty blonde balks and makes a disgusted face. “Not anymore. We will find you a name.”

The stranger smiles. “I’d like that. Were you turned against your will?” 

Clint can’t describe it, the voice in the back of his head tells him that this man was used against his will too. He would understand. 

“Yes.”

“Do you know who?”

“Yes.”

He looks even more disgusted now, not at the werewolf, but the situation. “Do you want them taken care of?”

Clint pauses and swallows. “Not if it means you’ll leave me.” Call him needy, but he’s desperate for human contact.

The guy blinks. He looks almost stunned and the flesh hand rubs over his greasy locks. “Okay. I’ll stay. How long have you been here?”

He wants to be annoyed at these questions, but he’s not. The man is trying to assess him and Clint _likes_ it. “A couple of months, the circus is long gone by now and that’s a good thing. I couldn’t be around them. I’m dangerous - didn’t want to hurt them.”

Picking himself off of the floor, he drags blankets behind him as he kneels by his pack and pulls on a pair of soiled jeans and a stained hoodie. It’s the only clothes he has on him.

“So…” The man is poking at the ashes with a gristle-slicked stick. He looks odd like he’s struggling to process the information. Clint still can’t place a name for him. He doesn’t look like a Greg or William. Maybe one will come to him.

“You meant what you said last night?”

Clint has to snort because he both said nothing and everything too. All in a motion of snarling and cuddling for warmth, saving this stranger from dying. A man who was used against his will that he would protect with his life. 

“I did,” he replies in a firm voice. “I will protect you, rather you want it or not. Either way, I think it’s safe that we leave in the chance you were followed.”

Was that a ghost of a smile on his lips? It looked beautiful. He’s staring at him with those stormy gray eyes, the question readable on his lips. _Where?_ Where can they run where the men won’t follow?

“I heard through the vines that there are new studies on lycanthropy in Italy. It’s a start to see about...this.” He waves his arm as if it’s full of fur. 

The stranger blinks, a distant look passing over his face. “Yeah,” he breaths, standing up and rolling up the blankets in a manner that tells him he’s used to packing quickly. “I haven’t been there since the War, uh forty-three.”

For some reason that doesn’t surprise Clint. He blinks twice as he takes his backpack and throws it on, feet kicking at the ashes to scatter it. 

“Then I think it’s time you went back, don’t you? Food is still shit as ever.”

Another look passes over the stranger, it’s his turn to cock his head to the side. “Are you...from my time?” When Clint shrugs, he huffs. “And you’re a werewolf, not a vampire, _Hawkeye.”_

That laugh strikes Clint to the core. It’s baritone and rumbles in his chest. It makes his chest tighten and feels like he’s been dunked in cold water. It’s both familiar and strange to his ears. 

“Clint,” he corrects. “My name is Clint. You’re...James.”

The name. A simple name, one syllable, and yet, it means the world to both of them. _James’_ eyes light up, the storm settling in his eyes. He crushes Clint to his chest, knocking them both into the cave wall. All Clint can do is hug him in turn, because they’re no longer alone.

They’re alone together.

“Do you...remember?” James breathes, tears running down his face as he holds onto Clint’s face. “I-I don’t, but that name. That name sounds so right. It _feels_ right.”

Sadly, Clint shakes his head, but he still holds onto James’ hands. “No, I...my memory is fuzzy. I get bits and pieces. I only just remembered. It felt right for you. You calling me Hawkeye...it tugged something in me.”

“It’s a start,” Bucky whispers, pressing a tender kiss to Clint’s head.

It’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s a start. They have a long path ahead of them to unlock their shared path, to see how their roads merge and intertwined, how they part paths. There is no one, clear, straight answer, but it is a start. It’s a new life for both of them, where they can pave the way for the future together. 

It’s certainly a start and Clint wasn’t going to let James live it alone, no longer. He will protect him, turn him if he has to, to protect him. He would die for him, not like he hasn’t before, a voice tells him. He’d happily do it again.

“It’s a start,” Clint agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what ya'll think! This was out of nowhere but I actually enjoy this concept?


End file.
